To The Holy Land
by Bellephont17
Summary: set pre-series. Robin has another one of his plans, the most daring one yet. He is running away to the Holy Land. His manservant is less than pleased, especially at the prospect of being bribed to stay behind. T for safety.
1. That's The Thing

Robin was up in a tree when Much finally found him, swinging his legs and leaning back against the bark. He was simply staring up at the sky and smiling like the most content man in the world.

"You'd think you'd get too old to be climbing trees," Much hollered up, squinting through the branches.

Robin laughed. "You would think that, wouldn't you?" With a final swing of his long legs, he jumped out of the tree, landing beside his manservant with a smug expression, reminiscent of when they were children and Robin was about to drag Much into one of his ill-conceived plans. "I know something you don't, my friend."

"Really? Well, I know something _you _don't," Much replied, folding his arms. "_I_ know that I have been looking for you far and wide all over Locksley. I know that my legs are sore and my breath is gone and I have a stich in my side. . ." Much stopped. Robin wasn't even looking at him. His master was laughing silently up at the branches above them, apparently very amused with something. "What?"

"I was just thinking about how much you will enjoy living it up as the earl of Bonchurch." Robin plowed on despite the glazed look coming over his manservant's face. "Sleeping late in the mornings, eating as much as you wish, bathing every other hour and, best of all, no errant master to chase all over the countryside at a moment's notice."

Much had broken into an astonished grin at some point in the middle of Robin's tirade. "Bonchurch? Me, an earl?" Robin grinned as his friend seemed to settle back and enjoy the scene he imagined. "Lord Much," intoned the manservant happily. "I like that. I like that _a lot_." Then his expression flickered and the happiness disappeared entirely. "But . . . why? Where are you going? Why won't I be chasing you all over the countryside?"

"That's the thing, isn't it?" Robin winked. "Now you must promise not to tell anyone. I don't think Thornton would approve, or Edward . . . or Marian, even."

"This isn't another one of your 'plans', is it?" Much asked warily. "Because if it _is_, I'm going to hit you." He raised a fist and brandished it under Robin's nose. "I swear, I will hit you and knock you onto your scheming . . ."

"Relax, Much," Robin lowered his friend's hand gently and took him by the shoulders. Only after scanning Much's face for a moment (and for Much an extremely anxious moment), did he divulge his secret. "This _is _a plan, my dear friend. The biggest, best plan I've ever come up with. And I'm going to need your help to see it to fruition."

Much groaned. "We're not going anywhere near the Nottingham prison again, are we?"

"No," Robin lowered his voice even further, loving every moment of the suspense. Much, on the other hand, was detesting it. "This is something much, _much _more daring."

"Just tell me already," the manservant grunted, dislodging himself from Robin's grip, taking a step back. "I don't like that look in your eye and I can't stand not knowing so hurry up and tell me."

"I am running away, Much."

"Running away . . ." Much scoffed. "From _what_?"

"Not _from _what, Much, _to _what. I'm going to the Holy Land. To fight for King Richard. For England." Once again Much was left gaping, and once again Robin hurried along, giving no indication he had seen his friend's dumbfounded face. "I've made all the arrangements. There's a ship leaving from London the day after tomorrow. I'm all packed, my sword is sharpened, and all I need is the help of a friend to get me out without Thornton or Edward – or Marian – noticing."

"You want me to help you run away to the Holy Land," Much repeated. Upon Robin's solemn nod of affirmation, he exhaled loudly and shook his head. "No. I won't do it. It's _dangerous_. Master, what are you _thinking?_ Do you realize how many people _die _out there? In the heat and . . . and sand . . ." He shook his head again and fell silent, unable to even comprehend the other dangers and discomforts awaiting his master across the ocean. "No. I won't."

Robin blew out his lips and looked heavenwards. "You know, you _always _do this."

"Do what?"

"Throw cold water," complained Robin, indignation scrawled all over his features. "You just . . ." He threw up one arm and let it drop again. "You never just _go along _with it. You always have to make such a big _deal _of everything. Every little thing!"

"Little?" sputtered Much. "You call running away without your guardian's permission or knowledge to fight in another country's war in a godforsaken desert against heathen barbarians _little_?"

"Look. All I want is for you to help me. Just make sure the horses are ready tomorrow morning and make up a reason why I'm not at Locksley. Keep up the pretense until the day after tomorrow, by which time I should be safely on my way." Robin paused, biting his lip at Much's stubborn face. "I could be ordering you to go along _with_ me! And what would you say then, Much, eh?"

"So instead you cart me off to Bonchurch Lodge and expect me to sit peacefully and accept your bribery –"

"Bribery!"

"Yes, bribery. You are only giving me Bonchurch because you know I would not help you in something so ridiculous otherwise, and that even if I _did _help you I would want to come with you. Unless I had prospects here. In Locksley. You want to cage me up and tie me down so I don't follow you."

Robin, laughing now with incredulity at Much's statement (which in actuality hit too true to the mark for comfort), turned and began making his way down the hill. "I thought you would be happy for me," he shouted over his shoulder. "I thought I could count on you, Much."

"You can, to make sure you don't get into trouble," Much shouted back, making no move to follow. Robin didn't answer, and Much turned to the trunk of the tree. "Damn you, Robin," he whispered in frustration, and slammed his fist into the tree bole, then shouted when he bruised his knuckles.


	2. Promises

The next morning, early, Robin rolled out of bed, slung his pack over his shoulder, and snatched his sword and purse from under the bed. He did not put his boots on, but instead slung them over his shoulder as he made his way down the stairs, past the servants' quarters, and into the stable. When he caught sight of Much, dressed and depressed, holding the head of Robin's saddled horse, he wasn't surprised. This was how it had been since they had known each other – Robin made a plan, Much said he would not be party to it, and then ended up coming anyway after a good brood.

"This is why I love you," he whispered, taking the reins from Much's hand and clapping the man gently on the side of the head.

Much stewed. "I know I'm going to regret this. Just wait and I'll get mine saddled."

Robin blinked. "Yours."

"My horse. You don't think I was just going to let you ride off . . ." Much pointed to what Robin realized to be the manservant's own luggage lying in a heap by the stable door. He put out his hand to stop Much before he walked away.

"Much. Wait . . ."

"I've thought it all out, and it's either both of us or neither of us," Much said firmly, though he did not look Robin in the eye. This was one of the first times he had laid down an ultimatum for his master, and the whole situation was uncomfortable in the extreme.

"You need to stay here and cover for me," Robin said gently.

"And who is going to cover for you out there?" Much demanded, voice going thick with frustration and fear. "Out there where the real danger is?"

"I'll get myself a squire."

"Make me your . . ."

"No, Much." Robin had inadvertently raised his voice, but lowered it again for fear of waking the others in the building. "Just . . . no." He looked away. "What about your lodge?"

"It's a house!" cried Much in as loud a voice as he dared. "A bloody . . . spit of land! Master, I don't _care _about the lodge. I don't _want _Bonchurch. If you are so anxious to give me what I want, then let me come with you. To the Holy Land."

Robin sighed. "I can't do that."

"Well, that's decided then," Much's tone was falsely light as he drew himself up. "I'll just – ah – unsaddle your horse, you can go back to bed, and we can forget any of this ever happened."

"Stop it, Much. I mean it." Robin closed his eyes and rested his head against the lintel of the stall. "Look, it's not just because I need you to cover for me. After that, after I'm over there, I'll need someone to look after Locksley. I have no heirs, I have no capable hands in which to leave the fate of my peasants." He took Much's wrists and turned the manservant's hands palm-upwards. "Except for these. Be my hands, Much. Live at Bonchurch, be happy, and look after Locksley until my return."

Much's face had gone rigid, but his eyes glittered moistly in the light of the single lantern that lit the stables. He closed his eyes. "I'd still rather come with you."

"And I would rather there was no war at all. But sometimes the things we have to do and the things we _rather _do lead us down different paths, my friend."

"I know," Much nodded, his eyes gone red. "Alright. Go. Quick, before I change my mind."

Robin, his own eyes glassy, pulled his manservant into a hug. "The first Saracen I slay will be for you, my friend," he promised when he pushed away again. He took the horse by the bridle and led it into the courtyard. Much followed, watching him lever himself into the saddle.

"You'll die," Much warned him thickly.

Robin laughed incredulously and rolled his eyes. "I won't _die._"

"Yes you will. You'll die, and then I'll die. And you'll be guilty of suicide _and_ murder."

"As always, your thought processes astound me, Much," Robin winked and turned the horse toward Locksley village and the open road.

Robin glanced over his shoulder at his friend, standing in the dimly lit doorway. He was admittedly proud of himself for making up such a brilliant reason why Much had to stay behind. It was partially true, that he needed someone to look after Locksley, but he was reasonably sure that Edward would take care of that without any trouble. But he could not bring himself to tell Much that the reason he did not want him coming to the Holy Land was because he was frightened for him. Scared to death that his poor dear friend, clumsy and innocent and absolutely no soldier, would be taken from him there. And then that would be the end of Robin of Locksley, whether he himself returned unscathed to England or not.

It was selfish, and Much would have hated him for mistrusting his ability. Which was why he must never be told. Better to let him think that he was fulfilling a crucial role, doing his master's bidding. Besides, such declarations of love did not suit Robin well. Best all around to leave things unsaid and spare them both the pain.

"I'll bring you back a Saracen shield!" Robin said over his shoulder as he began clip-clopping out of the courtyard and away from his manor and his Much.

"Just _you_ come back in one piece," Much called softly.

"I will!" promised Robin, waving jauntily before turning around to face a new and daring adventure.


	3. Two and a Half Years Later

Much sat in Nottingham prison, head in hands, feeling the familiar wetness of bitter tears on his face.

It had been two and a half years since Much the Miller's Son had watched his master ride away from him into the dusk of early morning. And still he remembered it word for word, every smell, touch, sight, and sound. It was the one thing that had not been taken away from him.

He had never gotten the Saracen shield Robin promised him. What he got instead was a messenger from King Richard himself, a fat fellow who bobbed onto Bonchurch's front stoop, delivered the news breathlessly, and darted away again. News of the capture of Cyprus and the fall of many good Englishmen. One good Englishman in particular.

When Edward had been ousted and the new sheriff installed at Nottinghamshire, Much had done what he could to stop the injustices he had witnessed. And it had landed him here, waiting for early morning and the beat of the drum and the rope that would silence him for good.

The merry jangle of the prison keys echoed down the passage as the warden came to fetch him, followed by two black-clad guards. The warden sneered as Much clambered slowly to his feet. "Stage fright, my lord? Don't want to die?"

"I don't actually care," Much told him dully. "I've been dead for two and a half years already."


End file.
